Skyler
by BlackOnyxEyes
Summary: My name is Skyler. I used to have a normal life, at least as normal as a demigod's life can be, anyway. But now I don't know how much time I have left until I turn into a monster. One-shot, OC.


**AN: Yesterday I read **_**The Mark of Athena**_** (again), and when I got to the part when Annabeth meets Arachne, I came up with this one-shot.**

Those cold, stormy-gray eyes follow me wherever I go. They bore into my back with that steady gaze, full of hatred and disgust. Those eyes watch my every move. In the dining pavilion, in the sword arena, in the woods. Everywhere.

Those eyes stare at me, mercilessly, when I stumble around, not in control of myself or my actions. Watch, unforgiving, as I curl up into a ball on the floor, writhing in pain, and pierce the air with my bloodcurdling screams.

* * *

I always knew that demigods are... well, different. But I'm more than that. And that doesn't necessarily mean that it's better. I'd say it's much, much worse.

I used to be a normal demigod. At least as normal as a demigod can be, anyway. The only strange thing about me was that my godly parent hadn't claimed me yet. Since the Titan war, the gods always claimed their children, so everyone had their cabin assigned on their first few days at the latest. Except me. I'd been at camp for about seven months, and so far I had no idea who my parents were. I was still waiting for that night, at a campfire sing-along, when I'd see a glowing sign hovering over my head, the sign that'd answer all my questions about my parentage, just like I'd seen it happen to every single new camper. I was still waiting, and it never came.

But now I understand. No matter how special getting claimed was, I doubt anyone would celebrate the appearance of _my_ godly parent's symbol floating above me. Even though the symbol never appeared, everyone knows whose daughter I am, and they fear me because of that. Everyone but the gray-eyed demigods; they fear me _and_ despise me, think of me as their greatest enemy; and the feeling is mutual.

Every day, when I walk to breakfast, the cheery mood at the tables vanishes as soon as I appear. A heavy silence falls over the once noisy pavilion, smothering the babble like a blanket. And then the heads begin to turn my way, faces staring at me in shock, disbelief, and hate... especially from the table where the gray-eyed people sit. They shoot me looks of such intense loathing that I'm forced to look away. Of course, the demigods from that table never advert their gaze from me, and as they watch my slow progress across the pavilion, the whispering starts. Rumors fly from one mouth to the other behind cupped hands, spoken in eager, hushed voices, and the next thing you know thousands of lies about me have spread across the mess hall like wildfire. Some of the "lies" are actually real, and most of them are completely made up, but I don't care; I've heard them all before. I hear my name repeated over and over again, coming from everywhere at once. Some new campers, who haven't heard any of the local gossip yet, gape at me with widened eyes, then scoot away from me fearfully when I walk past them, to my solitary table at the back.

Once I slide into my chair and dig into my food, the chatter slowly returns, though there's still an uneasy edge to it. Tension. I know why they're restless, and I don't blame them. They're scared that I'll have one of my... episodes. A phase, Chiron calls it. He says that it's not my fault, that I shouldn't be ashamed of it, the whole "it's just because of your demigod powers" talk. But, in truth, he doesn't really know what to do with me. Besides that fact, my privileges are no different from the rest of the campers': I train, I eat in the dining area and I live in my cabin. But these so-called "privileges" are more of a torture to me than anything else.

For me, training is exactly like when you're playing tag, and you're "it". As soon as I get to the archery range, or the lava wall, or the Pegasus stables, or anywhere else at camp, everyone stops what they're doing, picks up their things and leaves immediately, muttering excuses like "Gotta go, I have kitchen duty with the harpies" or "I'll get ready for the chariot race this afternoon". Well, at least that's what the polite people say. Most of the others point at me and say loudly, "It's her!". Some even throw an apologetic glance my way, shake their heads mournfully and say, with voices dripping in mock-pity, "You poor girl." Meals at the mess hall aren't much better; at least the "stay at your cabin's table" rule keeps people away from me.

The only place where I feel that I truly belong is in the Arts and Crafts pavilion. Not among the easels, chisels, marble blocks and pottery stands, though; the one thing I use there is the loom. Lately, someone's been saying that it's supposed to be haunted, so, obviously, nobody uses the old loom anymore. This suits me fine, because now I can use it in peace, without having to share it. And so, through those long, lonely days when I'm all alone, I weave. I use the threads to make colorful patterns shimmer across the fabric. I make tapestries, showing all sorts of pictures; from landscapes to sunsets, from the small, gentle waves on a lake, to full-fledged battle scenes. I weave. My fingers fly across the threads, expertly picking up one string, then another, and lacing them together. My hands dance so fast over my work that they're a blur. I don't even have to think about what I'm doing; it comes naturally to me. And that's when I'm certain of one thing: I was made for this. In moments like that, I feel happy, and I wish that feeling could last forever. Sadly, it can't.

Those few hours of joy that weaving brought to me are long forgotten as I walk back to my cabin, my heart feeling heavier with each step I take. My cabin. That is the biggest torture of all. By the time I reach the doorstep, I'm almost on the verge of tears. _Not again_, I think. _Please not again... _But I know it's useless to beg for something I know I can't prevent.

I trudge into my room and lock the door behind me. I shudder to think of what would happen if I forgot to lock it... just once. It would be catastrophic. It'd mean the death of lots of demigods, including certain gray-eyed scum... I shudder again, but this time in delight. Yes... why not kill the campers, the ones who hate me so much? The ones _I_ hate so much...

_NO_. I shake my head, trying to clear it of those disturbing thoughts, those horrid ideas which don't belong to me. _Focus..._ I know it won't be long now, not long before the phasing begins. I don't have much time left before I transform. Before I— A shiver ripples through my body, and I fall to the floor. _Oh no. Here it comes..._

Suddenly, I begin to change. My skin begins to darken and tufts of dark hair appear across my back. As a second shiver quivers down my arms and legs, my limbs grow longer, until they are thick, furry and two meters long. I shudder. Four more legs sprout from my sides, each leg with a shiny, curved claw at the end. With a final tremble, two razor-sharp black pincers grow out of my mouth, and my teeth become row upon row of ivory-white needles. Fangs. And that is when I notice how much the phasing hurts; a searing, white-hot pain erupts on my forehead, now dribbled with sweat, and I'm about to wipe it away with the back of my hand when I remember that I don't have hands anymore, and I won't have my real, human hands back until the next morning. The pain spreads from my forehead, down to my ribs, from my arms to the tips of my feet, and soon it covers every part of my body, burning me from the inside and out. It gets harder and harder to breathe, and soon I'm heaving short, rasping breaths, gasping for air.

I roll up into a ball, rocking back and forth. In absolute silence, until the pain becomes too much to bear; a small whimper of pain escapes me, then gets louder and louder. The whimper mounts to a scream; a desperate shriek, begging for mercy, for the pain to stop. But it doesn't. And it won't, not until morning comes.

I try to control my screams, and quiet down. _Pull yourself together_, I say to myself. _You should be used to this by now; it happens every single night..._ I close my lips firmly together, but that's not an easy thing to do when you have pincers sticking out of your mouth. The agony bottled up inside me scorches through my veins. I shut my eyes and take deep, calm breaths. The pain doesn't subside, but at least I've got it under control. And that is when the visions start.

I can feel their eyes on me, their steely gazes on my furry body, watching my pain with relish. The burning desire to seek them out, pounce on their necks and let them fall, dead, to the ground at my feet. One swipe of my claws to send them sprawling on their backs, helpless. One quick snap of my pincers could slit their throats open... Feel the pride as I hear their tortured cries when I strike them down, one by one... Feel the happiness building up inside me as I feast on their blood...

_Snap out of it!_, I scream inside my head. _This is not you! You wouldn't kill anyone, would you? _I try. Really, I do. But I can't stop the visions coming, each more macabre than the last, full of blood and death and murder... They haunt my dreams, and every time I wake up screaming, I'm more and more certain that someday, they'll come true.

In the morning, the only signs of my transformation are my sweaty palms, the dark circles on my face and my bloodshot eyes from yet another sleepless night.

When I walk down to the dining pavilion, the usual mutterings stirring around me, Chiron catches my eye. He smiles at me sadly, then goes back to eating his food. Even he, the centaur who's trained heroes for thousands of years, doesn't know what to make of me. What to do with a demigod whose main power is undergoing a horrible transformation, to turn into a murderous creature who's out for some gray-eyed scum's blood. What to do now that I've stopped being a normal demigod and became a... how to put it? An instant threat to everyone near me? A menace that must be avoided at all times? A danger to the world? I'll just stick with... monster.

I can't take it anymore. I'm not sure when my willpower will crumble, and I'll let my natural instincts take over. My natural instinct to kill all those gray-eyed demigods who loathe me as much as I hate them. When I'll give up on myself, and free the monster inside me. I'm not sure when, but I know I don't have much time left.

My name is Skyler. And I'm a daughter of Arachne.

**AN: Has anyone guessed why her name is Skyler? Skyler, spider... it was as close as I could get, anyway...**


End file.
